


Take my heart, my soul, my everything

by Baebadook



Category: Critical Role (Web Series), UnDeadwood (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canon Universe, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Frottage, Hand Jobs, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Potential Episode 4 Spoilers, The others might be mentioned but any appearances will be minor, UnDeadwood Mini-series (Critical Role), discord drabbles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-25 03:28:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22009252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baebadook/pseuds/Baebadook
Summary: "You could ruin everyone else for me." The last bit is said so quietly, an exhaled confession between them, but Clayton knows that Matthew can hear him. And it's true; it's already happened.Various drabbles I've written up for friends on the UnDeadwood Discord server, all of the smutty variety.
Relationships: Reverend Matthew Mason/Clayton Sharpe
Comments: 8
Kudos: 42





	Take my heart, my soul, my everything

**Author's Note:**

> I'm really working for that Patron Saint of Smut title, y'all LMAO.
> 
> It's exactly what it says on the tin, these are various drabbles I've typed up in the UnDeadwood discord, now in one convenient place! They're all pretty nonlinear, so not all of them will be connected or direct sequels to each other unless I say otherwise. Specific tags will be added to the summaries of chapters as needed.
> 
> Special thanks to the voice chat of the discord, for literally screaming at me and cheering me on while I wrote this first chapter, god bless them kahdsfkha.
> 
> Enjoy!

It's a miracle they make it to his room at all. The stairs to the second floor prove to be a bit of a challenge, but it's never stopped either of them before. They pause and lean against the banister, biting kissing against each other's lips, teeth clacking with the effort to _consume_ each other, still key'd up and thrumming with the leftover adrenaline from a job of Al's.

There's huffed laughter as well, between intakes and exhales of breath, the kind of relieved puffs expelled between lips that means they're _still alive_ , thank fuck, and realizing this only makes that hunger grow between them. 

Clayton loses his hat somewhere downstairs in the sanctuary, but that's quite literally the least of his worries at the moment; he's far more caught up in chasing after Matthew's mouth. Matthew, dressed down for the job, has shed his coat. His suspenders hang loose at his sides, and his button down shirt is open. Clayton wants to run his hands down his front and nip at exposed skin. Kiss every bruise and scar nestled between hair and muscle and _lavish_ the man in front of him. He's not much for god, but he feels some kind of holy power in him whenever he can pin Matthew to the bed and whisper his own kind of praises against his skin.

Matthew pulls away at the last second, looking far too smug, and something of a growl works its way out of Clayton's throat. It's almost a dance between the two of them, except he doesn't have the patience for it, and he's never been a good dancer.

Once they nearly trip and eat dust on the lip of the second floor he takes control, hooks his fingers around the leather holster snug around Matthew's thighs and _drags_ him closer so he can firmly slot their mouths together. Matthew lets him with another cheeky laugh, eyes crinkled at the corners, and Clayton wants to press a kiss to them. So he does, once they part, makes sure to slide a kiss against the scar on his cheek, too, hands moving up to knock the shirt off his shoulders.

There's not many words exchanged, but then again there isn't much of a need for it, either. Clayton presses everything he could mean against his mouth, against skin, far more eloquently than his words could ever accomplish. Their own little language, spoken through affections and shaken sighs and moans.

Matthew's own hands snake across the swell of his stomach, moving around hips to palm at his ass and drag him in close. Clayton groans hot into his mouth at the feeling of his erection pressing into his leg, and he thinks about how he could spend the rest of the evening like this. Necking and grinding against each other like teenagers.

He's a bit unsteady on his feet, however, and Matthew bares down on him like he's trying to meld them into one person. So his fingers find their original place around leather and this time he's pushing against him, moving him until Matthew's bare back hits solid wall and he moans in surprise.

"Rough." Matthew admonishes playfully, as if his pupils aren't blown so wide black has almost taken over, as if he doesn't _like_ being handled like this sometimes. Clayton sees through it all, and cocks an eyebrow. A challenge. One that Matthew gratefully accepts, always accepts, always pushing and pulling and riling him up until there's fire brimming in his veins.

His tongue slides into his mouth, and at the same time Matthew's pulling and tugging at the back of his shirt, untucking it from his pants so he can get his hands on Clayton's back. Clayton can't help but shiver at the contact of skin on skin, fingers tracing over his spine and skirting the edge of his belt. He doesn't know when Matthew pulled off his gloves, hadn't paid much attention in the scuffle between being pressed against the door of the church and now. Things always get a bit hazy around the edges when Matthew is involved, especially when his hands and lips are on him.

He thinks he should be scared to death of that; of being that vulnerable and open to someone in a way he hasn't been in over 15 years.

And maybe he is. Maybe he's wondering to himself when it all might come crashing down and end in tragedy, in more bodies littered across the thoroughfare of this godforsaken town.

And yet.

And yet.

Matthew looks down at him like _he's_ something to praise, like he's worthy of being loved and touched and Clayton desperately wants to believe him. Thinks he might be starting to. And that's a scary thought, too.

"Tease." He shoots back against lips. Watches them turn up in a smirk that shouldn't quite fit on such a simple preacher such as himself, and a shiver works it's way up his spine without the help of the fingers running patterns at his back.

"Do something about it, then." Matthew snarks, voice low and dangerous in that certain kinda way. Because he _knows_ , the bastard, knows that it riles Clayton up. And indeed it has. His own cock twitches in the confines of his pants and he growls again. Shoves a leg between Matthew's thigh and grinds against him good and proper. The little punched out moan Matthew makes into the heat of his mouth is worth every second of it.

"Fuck." His head hits the wall with an audible thump when he shifts against him again, and Clayton takes the opportunity to latch onto the supple skin of his neck. He sucks at the point just below his Adam's apple, revels in the thought that his pristine white collar will eventually hide purpled skin. Nobody will be able to tell but him, and him _knowing_ about those marks gets him going far more than it should.

"You're in a church, Matthew." Clayton admonishes back, just as playful, just as wry, and his preacher snorts.

"Like you haven't said worse." The tables are turning, and Matthew's hands skirt up farther. He tries not to arch into the touch, "Asked me to do worse." Whispered against the shell of his ear, breath ghosting and making him shudder against his frame. Clayton bucks into him again, gasps when his cock drags just right.

He drags Matthew down into another fierce kiss, almost missing his mouth and bumping noses with him, and that just makes them laugh a bit more, press against each other more. Feeling comfort and _love_ in each other. Sometimes. Sometimes Matthew's devotion to him, devotion he rightly should pour into god- it's enough to make his head spin. To make his chest ache with emotions he thought long dead by the time he lost the name Amos Kinsley.

He knows not to waste it, not to squander anything given to him.

He pulls back, just enough to get air to his lungs, just enough to drag a hand up to his mouth and _pull_ at his glove. Matthew watches him with wide eyes, always watching. He can see the way his neck bobs as he swallows hard, and Clayton feels some gleeful smugness within him as he tugs it off and tosses it haphazardly to the side.

His hands slide down the expanse of Matthew's bare chest, reverent in their touch. He thumbs over muscle and hair and scars and digs his fingers into the skin of his hips. Matthew shifts and huffs above him as he runs over his ticklish spots, and he could take advantage of those, but he's too horny to waste precious time. He starts to undo his belt buckle, cursing under his breath when his trembling hands fumble.

Matthew's fingers sliding down to press against the bare swell of his ass certainly doesn't help matters, either.

"Fuckin' finally." He exhales softly, when his prize is revealed. He shucks Matthew's pants and long johns down past his knees, and his mouth starts to water at the sight of his cock, standing at attention and red at the tip. His body tingles with arousal and want, and he could do it. Just sink to his knees and swallow him down. Maybe get Matthew to fuck his mouth like he likes. Taste and smell the headiness and feel him thick and heavy on his tongue.

But he has plans, and his own cock aches to be touched.

Matthew's fingers dig in and his breath stutters and pauses. He sends him a baleful look that's softened by the flush on his cheeks. He gets his hands on his own belt and repeats the process with similar effect. All the while Matthew tries to distract him with kisses and his fingers that skirt along the crack of his ass.

"You are unbelievable, you know that?" Clayton murmurs. 

"But you love me." Is the cheeky reply. Just soft enough that he knows he means it right back. Knows he always means it, and his heart stutters uneven in his chest with this knowledge no matter how many times it's pressed against his skin in the dead of night.

"I do." He agrees, an exhale more than the words themselves, but the meaning is no less lost. Matthew smiles at him, a special smile he's reserved just for him and after a while it's too much, too much to be basked in Matthew's light so he tilts his head and kisses him rough instead.

Matthews hands dig in, insistent, and drags him in closer. They both groan, gasp, when their cocks line up just right and brush together. Heat pulled taut in the center of his pelvis at the delicious feeling of their dicks rubbing together. Clayton tucks his head against Matthew's shoulder and bucks into him. Panting, hot and wet breaths fanning across his neck. 

They keep up the pace for a bit, simply moaning and breathing together in the alcove just across from the staircase. Clayton spares a thought to where they are and wonders if Matthew locked the church doors. He can't remember, not with the way that Matthew had pressed into him and shoved his tongue into his mouth. It's not like Deadwood is booming with religious individuals to begin with, anyways, but the thought of a poor lost lamb wandering in and getting a view of his bare ass at the top of the stairs is a little bit hilarious.

"What are you smiling at?" Matthew asks fond against his ear, and Clayton hums and presses his forehead against his shoulder.

"Just you." It's not even exactly a lie. A hand smooths up his back and presses against the nape of his neck, and Clayton could melt at his touch.

Them rocking against each other and chasing release is incredible, always good, fucking _fantastic_ , even, when it's Matthew. But it's not quite enough, he needs more, and he thinks that Matthew does, too.

It's hot, in this small space together. Sweat clinging to their skin, making his shirt stick to him. Trickling down his temples and matting his hair to him. He drags his tongue across Matthew's neck and can taste the sweat there. Backs off just enough again, so he can spit into his bare palm and slide his hand down between their chests. 

He gets their cocks in his hand, wraps his fingers around them as best as he can, and the reaction is instant. They both let out a noise, and Clayton's toes curl in his boots as he starts to jerk them off in tandem sloppy and loose.

" _Fuck_." Matthew says again, and Clayton shares the sentiment, really. His hips buck against him at their own accord, desperate and frantic to get off. Matthew has a vice grip on his hip and he can't help but whine. Can't help but hope that he'll have marks and bruises of his own in the morning.

His breath hitches in his chest when Matthew's other hand wraps around his own to help. The angle is awkward and so is having another hand atop his but it's _sofuckinggood_ , Matthew's fingers rough and calloused and warm to the touch, lighting him up from the inside.

Matthew ducks his head down to suck at Clayton's neck. He has no such reservations about if they're going to be visible or not, and he should be annoyed at that, but he's not. It just makes him feel all the more warm to the core. Makes him feel _owned_ in a way that he likes. Only likes if it's Matthew, just Matthew.

Clayton can tell, when Matthew's on the brink. When his breathes tear from his lungs like he's run a mile (not that that would really make him all that breathless, the bastard). When his hips lose rhythm in favor of bucking against him, desperate and visceral.

"Yeah? Gonna come?" Clayton goads, hot and heavy into his neck. Matthew just grunts, tightens his grip. Screws his eyes shut tight and rocks against him.

"Go on, then. Come for me." He bites down into the juncture of his shoulder _hard_. Matthew keens, high and ragged, and Clayton looks down between their hands just in time to see his come paint their hands and stomachs.

"Christ, Matty." 

Matthew keeps up his hand as best as he can, whines at the oversensitivity of it, and that hot ache deep inside of him grows and grows until he's treading that glorious edge. His hand is slick and sloppy over his cock, aided by Matthew's come, and it's the hottest thing he's ever seen in his _life_ at the moment.

"Gorgeous." Matthew murmurs, voice run over hot coals, eyes heavy and dark on him and Clayton comes hard enough that his vision blurs and darkens at the edges.

Time and words loose their meaning, all he's focused on is the drag of their hands together. His head digs against Matthew's chest, and his lungs burn trying to keep up with the rest of him. Matthew talks him down from his euphoria, presses more praises and kisses to the top of Clayton's head, and he's never felt more closer to god then in this moment.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for taking the time to read my stuff, I hoped you liked it! As always, comments and kudos are greatly appreciated if you want to, no pressure of course.
> 
> Come scream with/at me about clayson and UnDeadwood on my tumblr if you want! https://baeuregard.tumblr.com/ Likes and follows come from my mainblog shakenbaeky :)


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